The Sacred Joke or a Comedy of Menace and Manners
by Tazlet
Summary: In which our heroes take a crash course in the language of flowers.


Hell of a night. Fortunately, when asked if he wanted to make a statement, Caldwell had begun ranting about how Cheryl had ruined everything and that killing her was the right thing to do. And Marcie and Isabel? _Of course. Don't you see? All these women acting like men today? Insanity! Chaos!_ Murder by jealousy demon in the Second Degree…

That would not have gone over well with Crowley or the judge but, as if in answer to a prayer, the entire performance had been observed and documented by a police psychiatrist staying late on another case, and Caldwell was off of his hands sooner than Celluci would have thought possible, and with luck the man would never see the inside of a courtroom. It was over. He was home before dawn, with a day off tomorrow, and about to lay his weary self in a bed made up with sheets fresh that morning. _Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof…_

Pausing in his undressing to consider answered prayers, Celluci made a promise to swing by 'Grace and St. Peter's' at the first opportunity and light a candle to St. Michael, his name saint and, incidentally, patron of beleaguered detectives everywhere.

He had hung his holster on the tie rack and begun undoing his cuffs when it occurred to him that the bedroom smelled peculiar. Perfume? Maybe the place that did his laundry was using a new fabric softener. It was odd but easily amended. Step to the window, push the curtains aside and raise the shade. The sash was loose in the frame and rattled up too fast, but he managed to catch it before it hit the top of the casing.

After the evening's rain, the breeze that rushed inside was fresh and sweet. What was the scent wrapping around him now? This one teased him pleasantly with the memory of night blooming flowers—the jasmine in his grandmother's garden—it cleansed the goatish stink of insanity from his brain.

As he turned to finish undressing, he couldn't help recalling Fitzroy saying, '_Tell me Detective, you sleep with your windows open?_' Talk about freaks and monsters—as far Celluci was concerned, Fitzroy could fry in the bottommost pit of Hell. Maybe it was time to put in a long-distance call. He could imagine it—_Nonna? It's Michael. Hypothetically, is there any way to put a curse on someone who is, technically speaking, already damned?_ His grandmother would know if anyone would.

Defying all supernatural entities, be they demon, vampire, incubus or grandmother, he left the window as it was and dropped his shirt on the floor—slacks, too—it was all going to the laundry tomorrow, anyway, and he could mention the fabric softener.

Sleep came quickly.

Henry swerved across three lanes of rain slick highway, ignoring the outraged honking behind him.

He was seething; hours of waiting for Caldwell to be processed and then driving Vickie home in return for a peck on the cheek and a chaste hint that he get some sleep—that was not how this night was going to end!

He cut off a semi and caught the off-ramp, just making the light at the bottom, and a mile further, still without braking, turned left to penetrate a neighborhood of snug pre-war cottages. _Celluci's neighborhood._ His lip curled and his grip on the Jaguar's steering wheel tightened; the mahogany cover cracked under his fingers.

Wendy was a vibrant woman and with two of her closest friends murdered and the third's husband under arrest it wouldn't have taken much of a nudge to make her see how close her own escape had been. Under those circumstances, even the most independent woman would have needed comfort and Henry had meant to be there to offer it—subtly, of course. But there had been Emmanuel with his arm already insinuated around Cheryl's waist and seeming to be in conversation with her. Not so deeply though that Henry hadn't noticed the incubus's eyes flicking to Vickie, leaning against the hood of the Caldwell's SUV and tête-à-tête with Celluci. It had crossed his mind to wonder about the incubus's manner of feeding; that flashing red glint _could_ have been the strobe of the police car's beacon or…with his attention refocused and his ears pricked, he'd heard Celluci say, 'There's a lot about Henry you don't know.'

_…bastard son of the king_.

Whether Celluci had understood what he was saying or not, the bolt had shot home. Rage had driven out lust and, briefly, hunger. Henry's only thought had been _You're going to pay for that, Celluci._

Close to his goal now, he lowered the jag's windows.

There was Celluci's door and Celluci's car in the drive way. The lights were out.

He drove half-a-mile further on and, at the far edge of the development, found the still standing stone gateway of an old farmhouse. He left the Jaguar parked behind it and slipped across the wet suburban lawns, leaving no mark of his passing.

At Celluci's back fence, he stopped to sniff the air and listen. Away from the downtown reek of gasoline fumes, asphalt and wet brick, the rain-washed air was redolent of aromatic herbs—rosemary and thyme—like the hedges behind Sheriff Hutton where the laundresses used to drape the wet linens to dry. He smelled them and spicy flowers from borders of his mother's knot garden—primroses, gillies and lavender. He could hear a sleeping heartbeat. _The fool had left his window open._

Mike dreamed.

Vickie was whispering,_ Let me in. _

_Lost your key again, Nelson?_

_I don't have a key. Tell me to come in._

_Okay, okay, come in. Gotta stop losing your keys._

The side of the bed sank as she slipped in to it, spooning against his back.

_You're cold,_ he complained.

_Turn over. Warm me up._

The perfume she was wearing was dark and bitter and powerfully arousing.He was hard immediately and turned over, intending to embrace her. But Vickie was no lightweight; she topped him easily. Her thighs gripped his sides, holding him while she nuzzled his neck.He strained against the cool damp cotton, wanting to touch her but she was holding him too tightly. His erection was a torch that needed to be quenched, but when he tried to spread his legs or squirm the sheet down, urging toward her cunt—her mouth—any cool haven—he couldn't move. He begged._ Fuck me. Suck me. Eat me. _There was the gurgle of laughter—_Thought you'd never ask—_and a quick, sweet thrill of pain. Vickie had bitten him! On the neck! He cried out her name out. Softly, softly she murmured _it's all right, Mike, _and kissed it better. _There…_ _see? _He stopped struggling as warmth flowed from her lips. _I see…_ As, gently, the muscles of her thighs began to work him, a sensation like a velvet cord rippled up from the seat of his balls, no pleasure like this ever, never before, rising like a flood through his gut to the surge and sound of her mouth, taking and giving bliss.

Willing her to subsume his soul, as she was consuming his life, he would have given himself utterly, including the single hot thread that escaped her mouth. It ran down his neck. Her tongue chased after it. The severing of the current between them was too abrupt. Thrashing, crying, _Kiss me!_ Their heads bumped and their lips came together and Celluci thrust his tongue into her mouth. She sucked it. He pulled away for air and caught her lower lip between his teeth. It was so smooth. He bit down and, this time, he sucked. She jerked away from him but a butterfly kissed his temple when he whimpered his need. _That's not—it's not a good idea._

The voice was music without the grace note of a breathing soul,

Celluci licked his lips, remembering a night shortly after he and Vickie had first become lovers—when everything between them had been new and miraculously intimate. On his knees, he had worked his way up her leg, nibbling and biting; worshiping her like a goddess, until he buried his face deep between her thighs. Afterwards, still breathless from the orgasm he had given her she had kissed the roses from his besmeared cheeks. Vickie was no shrinking violet and he had kissed her back.

It had tasted coppery, then, too.

At that moment, the mockingbird that liked to perform outside his window early in the morning launched into his favorite imitation of a scolding crow and Celluci found that he was having trouble breathing; the stench which was suddenly blowing through the window—a smashup of rotting pumpkins and spoiled fish—was a nose stinging assault on the senses. Worse, he recognized it. The plant grew in the hills north of Milan. Once smelled, it could never be forgotten.

At the same moment, his companion hissed with disgust. "What the hell is that?"

"'Lords-and-ladies,'" he said. "I think it's a kind of lily."

He took comfort in how cool his voice sounded, considering how he was straining against the weight of the body on top of him. The same size, but so much heavier than Vickie's._ I should have known who it was._

"I think I prefer roses," Henry Fitzroy said.

"Get off of me," Celluci said.

"Sorry."

With the weight off, Celluci's arms and legs began to tingle, all pins and needles as if he had been bound too tightly and circulation was finally returning. Other discomforts were making themselves known: the sheet bunched under his ass…the wet evidence soaking into it. Crude reality displaced the last shred of that exalted experience and, adding insult to injury, Fitzroy beside him wiped his mouth and chin, sighed and began sucking on his fingers.

"Stop that! That's disgusting!"

"Waste not, want not."

"You…!"

"You...what? Go on, say it!"

He couldn't say it—_leech! Parasite!_ "Jesus, that's my blood you're…licking."

"Celluci, you howling hypocrite! Tell me you don't eat steak and enjoy it!"

"I don't rape the cow to get it!"

"You would if cows talked back! Obviously I've been giving you too much credit. I would have thought that even you could detect that somebody else's influence is at work here."

"What are you talking about?"

"Smells like flowers? My guess is Emmanuel decided to send the very best."

"Are you saying…this was all because of some kind of supernatural roofie?"

"Yes. He slipped it to both of us…"

"And the most erotic night of my life has been …"

"…because, under ordinary circumstance, I would not drink your blood if you were the last h'ordeuvre in the chafing dish of humanity."

"…my worst nightmare!"

"Exactly."

"Oh, for…! I asked Vickie what to do about him."

"Have him deported!"

"To the nether plane? Yeah, I'll look right into that."

The silence that fell between them was terrible.

Then Fitzroy said, "Mike?"

"Don't." Celluci started at the touch on his arm.

"You know you just admitted this was the 'most erotic night of your life.'"

"'Nightmare.' The operative word was 'nightmare.'"

"Then I take it that cuddling's out of the question?"

"Got it in one. Sorry to disappoint. Now get out!"

"I can't. We need to talk."

"No way in hell! You could have killed me!"

"That is not fair, not true and you are not the only victim here!"

"You are seriously complaining because there's no honor among ghouls?"

"I resent that! I am not a ghoul and you're the last…"

"Resent whatever the hell you want, but get the hell out of my house!"

"Make me!"

"Fine!" He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, intending to get his weapon. Maybe you couldn't kill a vampire with lead bullets, but it would give him a great deal of satisfaction to wing this one. "I will! And then we'll…" Everything went black.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Fitzroy was beside him with an arm around his waist to support him.

"I've gone anemic, all of a sudden." His ears were still fizzing but the windowsill was near enough. He pulled away from Fitzroy and leaned on it. He could see the roofline of the house across the street clearly against the ultramarine sky. The reek was gone and the mocker had been replaced by a choir of more melodious songbirds. It was a brand new day. "Get out," he said.

"Believe me, nothing would make me happier. But I can't," Fitzroy said. "The sun's coming."

"Good. Blow away. Fffft! There'll be one less freaking monster in the world."

As soon as he said it, Fitzroy was on top of him. "Thank you, Detective Celluci. Problem solved. I'll finish the job I started."

The glass was cold against his back. There was enough light to see the shark's eyes and tips of Fitzroy's teeth. He could imagine them against his throat, piercing and gnawing. If it had ever crossed his mind to wonder if vampires got hard, he knew the answer now. They did. Very hard. And the people who say that fear can be a powerful turn-on, were right. He could feel the power of the body, writhing against his, the weight of the head, butting his shoulder, and the force of the prick, thrusting between his thighs. Even if he had had the strength to fight the outraged fury that was Henry Fitzroy in the full manifestation of his powers, he didn't want to. He wanted to surrender and submit to that dreadful beauty.

He braced himself against the cold glass and husked in desperation, "You don't want to do this."

It was such a corny TV cop thing to say, that he should have been embarrassed.

Except that, in real life, cops say it because it works—he heard the snap of teeth below his ear. "Yes, I do. You called me a monster. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't behave like one."

The eerie harmonics in his voice called to Celluci's longing, but the bitter tone in it was entirely human. He responded to that. "What will you tell Vickie?"

"Say you attacked me. Say I was defending myself."

"She'd never believe that."

"Make something up—you threw yourself at me and wouldn't take no for an answer."

"That's a bit purple, isn't it?"

"I write graphic novels, remember?" Fitzroy laughed. "Comes with the territory." He was still laughing softly as he took a step back. His cock gave a bounce, but subsided as the glamour faded. His eyes were gray. Looking over Celluci's shoulder, he said, "I would love to finish you off, one way or another." He reached up and Celluci held his breath for the touch on his cheek. "But it looks like I'm out of time," he said, and his hand burst into flame.

_Now what are you going to do?_

Celluci slammed the window. He pulled down the blackout shade and drew the insulated curtains. Vampires, after all, aren't the only creatures who walk the night and sleep by day. He made for the door, but before he could slam it, Fitzroy called out, "Hey, Celluci—?"

"What now?"

"Anyone ever tell you're beautiful when you sulk?"

"Oh, go to…sleep."

Fitzroy already had the comforter over his head, and Vampires do not dream.

Despite legs that had the all the structural coherence of overcooked spaghetti, Celluci made to the kitchen. He soaked a dish towel in cold water and draped it around his neck. He gulped half of the blue Gatorade straight from the bottle. Both of those helped, but not much. He folded at the kitchen table.

_What are you going to do now?_

Think logically. There's a vampire in the bedroom. Vampires don't wake until dusk. Wait until dusk. At this time of the year sunset is 8:14 _pip emma_. It wasn't even six o'clock in the morning yet! Fifteen hours to kill—so to speak. He thought of calling Vickie and waking her up to tell her, _Oh, by the way, me and your parasitic new partner got a little frisky last night and it was your friendly neighborhood incubus's fault. Now you see what comes of tolerating ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night. They bump you in the night…and, oh, how they bump! _Oh, God no! She'd never keep it to herself, and Coreen would want details.

His pants were in the bedroom and damn if he was going to open that door, but it was getting impossible to ignore the pressure pattern of the cane seat that was embossing itself on his naked ass. He pulled the cleanest pair of dirty jeans he could find out of the laundry hamper and splashed some water on his face. The bathroom mirror confirmed the black shadows under his eyes and general pallor. He fell asleep on the sofa in the living room with all of the curtains as wide open as possible.

It was un-restful sleep at first, full of vivid dreams and abrupt awakenings.

He dreamed of their lovemaking. This time there was no doubt about as to identity of the dream lover. Fitzroy's hand was on fire and every stroke left its mark his flesh.

The backfire of a school bus jolted him from that one. Cop senses identified the sound, calmed his breathing and slowed his racing heart…he slept.

And immediately dreamed himself in the outpouring gush of that unholy communion and woke himself coming. The jeans went back in the hamper. He took two aspirin, finished the Gatorade and then went into the office and booted up the computer.

Google Search didn't provide any more information than the anonymous yellow envelope that was locked in his file at work. As far as portraits, there was a questionable watercolor by Holbein—the date was wrong and the child too young—but a miniature of a young man in a cap showed the same eyes, same mouth and same chin. 1536. It hurt to think about and suddenly, he was stifling multiple yawns. He got a sheet from the closet and returned to the sofa.

The next time he surfaced, it was to the music of the ice cream truck, tingkling _Fare thee well, fare thee well, fare thee well my fairy Fay…_

The shadows in the room were long when the answering machine clicked on and Vickie's voice said something about getting a pizza later. His brain noted it and he slept on.

What finally prompted him to wake up was another odor, only this one was fragrant, aromatic and enticing. He opened his eyes and saw a steaming mug sitting on the table in front of him. Fitzroy was on the other side of it. He sat up, stupid with sleep. "You made coffee?"

"I followed the directions on the can. Consider it a peace offering." Fitzroy grinned and Celluci realized the sheet that had been covering him was on the floor. He made an undignified grab for it.

"How long have you been sitting there?"

"Long enough. Relax. I appreciate beauty whenever I find it, but I prefer my partners willing—it seems like I'm always making that speech to someone these days." Fitzroy's mouth gave a twist. "Listen to me, Celluci; I feel I owe you an apology. I should have known what was happening. I shouldn't have lost control of myself. I put you at risk. I promised Vickie I'd never do that. I don't feel like I should have to explain myself to anyone, least of all you, but I owe you my life." He held up his hand.

_You arrogant prick, _Celluci almost snapped; _don't wave your noblesse oblige at me. _Then he stared. The hand was black and still blistered. And it fell on him that this really was Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Earl of Nottingham—who might have been king of England, if he had lived—vampire—apologizing. "Whew," he said, "That must have been hard."

"You'll never know."

"Apology accepted; I overreacted…as well. I'm going to ignore that last bit, but there is one other thing…"

"What's that?"

"How could Emmanuel have enspelled you, of all…_things_?"

"Apparently, the view from the top of the food chain isn't as far as I thought it was." The points of Fitzroy's teeth showed as he smiled. "Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go and hunt."

"You could stay for dinner." The words just slipped out. Not the wisest thing to say, but..._ Oh, how they bump._

_Finis_

_30 October 2010_


End file.
